


Living Dead Girl

by The_Fallen_Sky



Category: Smallville
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1751399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fallen_Sky/pseuds/The_Fallen_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is burning, and she's to blame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Dead Girl

Title: Living Dead Girl  
Author: The Fallen Sky  
Rating: NC-17 though it's mostly R  
Pairing: Chlark and Chloom  
Summary: The world is burning, and she's to blame.  
Warning: This is a very angsty and dark piece, and it's not exactly Chloe-friendly. Also, there's some graphic imagery and content that some may find disturbing. You have been warned.  
A/N: This is an AU one-shot that takes place after Chloe ran off with Davis in Season 8. In this world, things take a much darker turn. I'd like everyone to know that I absolutely love and adore Chloe, and the treatment of her as a character in this story is not reflective of my feelings toward her. This is simply my interpretation of how things could have played out with the Doomsday scenario.

Feedback is welcome. Enjoy!

 

The world is burning.

People are dying, their screams echoing in her ears.

_She's to blame._

She's the one who unleashed the Beast upon the world. She's the one who believed she could control its savage impulses. She's the one who thought she could save the world by sacrificing herself, tethering her life, her very soul to the Beast. She's the one who sought to save the love of her life by running away with a monster.

_She's to blame._

Her good intentions have wrought a hell that's seen millions upon millions upon millions of people die at the hands of a monster that could never be controlled, never be tamed. Cities have burned and crumbled because of her arrogance.

_She's to blame._

She had to watch as Clark fought the Beast, valiantly trying to stop its reign of terror. She had to watch as Clark weakened. She had to watch as Clark's body fell limply to the ground, bloody and broken, had to watch as the Beast towered over the corpse of the man she loves, roaring in triumph.

Now, she has to watch as the Beast traverses the globe, laying waste to everything and everyone it encounters.

_She's to blame._

She's not sure how long it will take for the Beast to destroy the entire planet, but she _is_ certain that it's inevitable. Everyone who's stood against the Beast has fallen, including Clark.

There is no more hope. The world is doomed.

_She's to blame._

She listens to the sounds of people dying and is unaffected by it. She's heard so many die, she's become numb to it, doesn't even think about it. What good would it do? She can't save them. Hell, she can't even save herself.

So, she sits, watching the night sky glow orange as another city burns, waiting for the screams to cease, waiting for the Beast to return.

_She's to blame._

All is quiet, save for the crackling fires as buildings and bodies burn, and, of course, the thundering sound of footsteps as the Beast makes its way back to her.

She doesn't tremble in fear or attempt to hide or run away. She's tried to run, but the Beast always finds her. She's tried to hide, but the Beast always finds her. She used to be afraid of the Beast, but it's never hurt her, has actually protected her.

No, running, hiding, being afraid, they're all pointless, so she just sits and waits.

She doesn't look up as the Beast approaches, coming to a stop in front of her.

She doesn't look up or flinch as the Beast reaches out and strokes her hair.

She doesn't look up as she stands, removing her clothes before turning around and bending over.

She doesn't flinch as the Beast grabs her hips and presses its cock into her.

She doesn't flinch or cry out as she feels herself tear as the Beast fucks her.

She doesn't flinch as she feels the Beast release inside her with a muted roar.

She doesn't flinch as she feels the Beast's rancid breath, hot against her neck as it basks in the afterglow.

She doesn't flinch as the Beast withdraws from her and she feels the mixture of its release and her blood leaking from her body.

She doesn't look up as she cleans herself and gets dressed.

She doesn't look up as the Beast scoops her up and starts carrying her to the next city where the cycle will begin again.

_She's to blame._

Hers is a lonely existence. She has nothing but time, time to think about how she fucked up.

She wonders, sometimes, what she ever did to deserve what's befallen her.

She also wonders why the Beast has chosen her.

Somewhere, deep inside, she knows the answer.

Davis.

It all started with Davis Bloome.

She used to think he was just an ordinary man with a troubled past who found himself trapped by circumstances beyond his control.

She used to think he was a good guy who just wanted someone to love him, and that he had chosen her to be that someone.

She used to think his love for her would be enough to keep the Beast at bay, that he could overcome the darkness.

She thought she'd be able to save the world by playing the role of friend-turned-girlfriend.

Turns out, she was wrong...about everything.

Davis, for all his emotion, good intentions and humanity, never existed.

He wasn't real.

She did everything, held his hand, hugged and kissed him, eventually had sex with him, all in an effort to keep Davis in control. But all her efforts were for naught.

Davis kept transforming into the Beast, kept killing and destroying, and the transformations became more frequent until, one day, Davis simply ceased to exist.

That's when she knew.

That's when she knew how horribly wrong she'd been, to believe that Davis could be saved, that she was the only one who could save him.

She wishes she could go back in time, back to the Fortress, back to the moment when Clark was about to exile the Beast to the Phantom Zone. She wishes she could go back there and tell Clark he was doing the right thing, that Davis wasn't real, that he wasn't a person to be saved, that the world would be safe with Davis trapped in an alien prison.

Unfortunately, wishes are all she has left, and no amount of wishes will change what's happened because of her and the choices she's made.

_She's to blame._

She doesn't sleep much anymore, because whenever she closes her eyes, she sees Clark, bloody and lifeless, sees his eyes, devoid of the light that used to fill her with hope and made her believe anything was possible, staring back at her, accusing her, blaming her.

She goes from one nightmare to another, the only distinction being one is only temporary while the other is forever.

Her dreams, mercifully, come to an end, but her reality...

After Clark's death, she lost all hope, realized that the world, and everyone in it, was lost. It was then that she decided to end her life rather than continue on as the Beast's plaything.

She still remembers shoving that jagged piece of metal into her neck, severing her jugular. She remembers the brief moment of uncertainty just before her flesh was pierced, how her hand trembled. She remembers the fear she felt as her blood streamed from her body with every beat of her heart. She also remembers the relief and joy she felt as her life slipped away, because she knew the nightmare was finally over, that she'd be reunited with Clark.

She also remembers waking up in the Beast's arms, it's red eyes gazing down at her, it's breath hot against her face. She remembers the disappointment, the sadness, the frustration and the fear she felt as her hand sought her neck and felt the smooth, undamaged skin there.

Her healing power, long thought gone, had somehow returned.

A bitter, angry laugh escaped her then as she realized that she'd be forever cursed to suffer the consequences of her choices.

_She's to blame._

It's another typical day in her existence.

She's sitting and waiting as the Beast rampages through another city, wreaking havoc, destroying and killing.

She tries not to listen to the screams of terror and anguish, tries not to listen to the sobs of grief as survivors mourn the loss of loved ones before being struck down themselves.

She tries not to think about how all those deaths are her fault, tries not to think about how she's responsible for the end of civilization, the end of humanity, the end of the world.

She also tries not to think about what's waiting for her once the Beast has completed its task, tries not to think about its blood-covered claws touching her naked flesh, tries not to think about its monstrous cock invading her body, literally tearing her apart from the inside out, tries not to think about its demon seed filling her, possibly impregnating her with the next generation of death and destruction.

She tries, but she fails.

She thinks about all of those things, but they don't affect her, not like they should.

Much as she hates to admit it, she's more dead than alive. Yes, her body may live, but her spirit, her very soul, they died a long time ago.

_She's to blame._

She's pulled from her bleak musings by a sound she's never heard before, one certainly unexpected.

The screams of the dying are drown out by the piercing roar of the Beast. Except, this isn't a roar of triumph. It sounds like a roar of displeasure, possibly even agony.

Her ears perk even further when she hears the roar a second time, this time accompanied by a thunderous boom.

The ground begins to shake, and the booms become more frequent.

The Beast continues to roar, each one more anguish-filled than the last.

And then...silence.

The booms have ceased, and the ground stops shaking.

The Beast no longer roars.

The only sound she hears is the crackling of fire.

Something inside her tells her that the silence should be welcomed, greeted with joy, but instead a deep sense of fear and dread fill her.

For the first time in a long time, she doesn't know what to expect, doesn't know what will happen next, and it unnerves her. Strange as it may seem, she's become accustomed to the routine of violence and death followed by being taken by the Beast, and she finds the change from that norm unsettling.

She's about to move from her place, a move wholly unnatural for her, and investigate, try to determine what happened, but she stops herself.

She hears something, a noise that's unfamiliar.

It's getting closer, and her fear rises.

She closes her eyes and listens, both to the approaching sound and the racing of her heart.

She braces herself for the worst, but the sound just stops.

All is quiet, save for the beating of her heart.

Slowly, she opens her eyes, and what she sees before her is...impossible.

A figure stands before her, tall, muscular, so very familiar, but it can't possibly be who it appears. She saw him die.

Pushing aside one impossibility, she focuses on another.

There, clutched in one powerful hand is the Beast's head, blood steadily dripping from the remnants of its neck, its eyes, still unnaturally red but devoid of the malice, the pure evil she's come to know, now blank and unseeing.

Clutched in the other powerful hand is what's left of the Beast's body, now a garish tangle of twisted, broken and nearly severed limbs, the boney protrusions snapped off, blood soaking the carcass.

Her eyes are transfixed, locked onto what remains of her worst nightmare, the Devil himself.

It isn't until she hears her name, spoken so softly, reverently, by a voice she thought she'd never hear again, that her attention shifts, and her eyes gaze upon a face burned into her memory, her heart, her very soul, the face of the one man she's ever truly loved.

_"Clark."_

It comes out as a hoarse, choked whisper, a voice foreign to her own ears for having been silent for so long.

A small smile curves his lips, and his eyes shine with the light she's cherished since the day she first glimpsed it, in a barn loft, so many years ago, the light she thought extinguished by a monster she helped unleash.

Her body begins to tremble, and she can feel emotion bubbling up from deep within her.

In an instant, he drops the blood-soaked remains of death itself, and his arms, his inhumanly strong, impossibly gentle arms are around her, holding her, comforting her. She can feel his warmth, physical and spiritual, suffusing her, washing away the cold numbness that's gripped her soul for so long.

Tears sting her eyes, and silent sobs wrack her body as she comes undone within his embrace.

Her heart literally hurts, but she relishes it and clings tighter to the man who means everything to her.

Pulling back, he gently holds her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks, his eyes searching hers.

She's torn, desperately wanting to get lost in his eyes, to bathe in the love she sees reflected there, and also deeply ashamed, ashamed of the things she's done and allowed to be done, ashamed of what she's become.

She doesn't deserve to be looked at the way he's looking at her, as if she's beautiful, inside and out, as if she isn't tainted by evil, stained with blood and come.

She tries to turn away, but he won't let her, won't let her turn away from the light, the love he offers.

_"All my fault. It's all my fault. I'm to blame."_

Her words pierce the moment and give voice to her thoughts, the thoughts that have plagued her since this hellish odyssey began.

Sadness mars his expression, and empathy shines in his eyes at her words and the belief, the certainty behind them.

His voice is soft, soothing, reassuring as he speaks.

_"It's not your fault. You're not to blame for any of it. What happened was beyond your control."_

She's not sure if she believes him, wants to, but doesn't know if she can.

He must sense her hesitance, reluctance to accept the truth, and continues.

_"_ I _don't blame you."_

The conviction behind his words is palpable, and she can feel herself start to believe, believe that maybe it isn't her fault, that maybe she's not to blame for what's happened to the world, to humanity, to him...and to her.

As if knowing she's teetering on the precipice, he gives her one final nudge.

_"I love you, Chloe."_

She can feel something well up from deep within her soul, something that withered and died a long time ago, something that used to make her believe anything was possible...

Hope.

As he leans in, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, her tears begin anew.

It seems she's finally escaped one of her nightmares and might one day be able to put this godforsaken ordeal behind her and live again.

And yet, from somewhere, deep in the recesses of her mind, a tiny voice whispers to her...

_You're to blame._

She wakes with a start, her heart thundering, her senses on alert.

She feels a presence close to her, arms around her, and she panics.

The Beast.

Looking up into its hideous, blood-red eyes, her spirit withers, along with the hope that had blossomed within her.

A dream.

It was all just a dream.

Clark hadn't returned, hadn't slain the Beast, hadn't rescued her from her nightmare.

He was still dead, and she was still trapped in a living hell, forever doomed to be the Beast's whore.

A sharp pain in her abdomen draws her attention.

She stares at her swollen belly, stares at her traitorous body and curses the abomination growing within.

She wishes should could kill it, but she can't, and not for lack of trying.

It seems Fate has deemed her guilty, guilty of betraying humanity and guilty of betraying the man she loves, and has seen fit to punish her for her crimes.

Part of her thinks it's all horribly unfair, that she was only doing what she thought best, what she had to do in order to save him and the world. But, there's another part of her that thinks she deserves everything she's getting, and it's that part of her that has accepted her lot in life, even made a sort of peace with it, or rather a defeated resignation that's left her numb to anything and everything.

_She's to blame._

It happens around dusk on a non-descript fall day, just outside the ruins of another burning city.

Her water breaks, and the contractions begin.

The pain is overwhelming, nearly unbearable.

She'd cry out, but the pain takes her breath, and the only sound she makes is a strangled, raspy gurgle.

It goes on for hours, and, eventually, the ordeal saps her to the point where she begins to fade in and out of consciousness.

Her vision goes in and out of focus, which is a blessing, because all she sees is the Beast, standing over her, its eyes watching in eager anticipation as its spawn attempts to make its entrance into the world.

She must have faded out for a few minutes, because when her vision clears, the Beast is gone, and she can hear the sound of a struggle.

Turning her head, she sees the Beast grappling with a dark, man-shaped figure, and the figure appears to be winning.

Blinking the sweat out of her eyes, she tries to focus, tries to see who it is that could possibly stand up to the Beast and perhaps defeat it.

Suddenly, the night is pierced by an otherworldly sound, the sound of the Beast screeching in blood-curdling agony as the figure slowly but surely begins tearing the Beast's head from its body.

The sound of tearing flesh makes her stomach roil, and she vomits just as the Beast's head comes free and its quivering body drops unceremoniously to the ground with an earthshaking thud.

The figure, victorious, stares into the unseeing eyes of the Beast before simply dropping its decapitated head and stomping on it.

Without a sound, the figure makes its way toward her.

She should be both scared and relieved that someone has finally killed the Beast, but she's in too much pain to care.

As the figure comes to a stop a few feet from her, she's finally able to see his face, and what she sees shocks her.

Her eyes are playing tricks, they have to be. She can't possibly see who she thinks she sees. She refuses to get her hopes up, refuses to believe that he's really here.

Something's wrong. Her labor pains have changed. Instead of contractions, she feels like she's being torn apart from the inside.

Seconds later, she feels her skin pierced and sees a dark, razor-sharp bone protruding from her stomach. A second after that, she sees, feels and hears her flesh rip as the Beast's spawn claws its way out of her body, presumably in an attempt to get at the man standing mere feet away.

She can feel the life draining from her as her blood spills from her body, soaking what remains of her clothes and the ground around her.

Her scream dies on her lips as she watches the demon spawn crawl from the gaping wound that was her stomach.

Her vision swims and starts to fade, and she sees him grab the abomination by the neck and rip its head off, just as he'd done to its father.

As the darkness claims her, she whispers his name.

_"Clark."_

_She's to blame._

Her death is short-lived, and so is her relief that the nightmare is finally over.

At first, she thought it was just another dream, but upon seeing the decapitated bodies and ungodly amount of her own spilled blood, she knows that it's real.

Clark is somehow alive, and he defeated the Beast and its unholy offspring.

She should feel elated that the man she loves is alive and has saved her from her nightmare, but she doesn't.

There's something different about the Clark who saved her, something not-quite-right, something almost dark.

She can see it in his eyes.

The eyes that once filled her with hope and joy, the eyes that once shone so brightly they managed to chase away the darkness in her soul, now fill her with a feeling of unease and cause a chill to run down her spine.

There's a hardness to him now, an edge that commands respect and obedience.

When he speaks, his words are cold, lacking emotion.

She wants to ask him what happened to him, but she's afraid, afraid he'll chastise her, afraid he'll ignore her, but, most of all, afraid that he'll tell her.

So, she remains silent, speaking only when spoken to, and follows him like a lamb following a shepherd.

He gathers what's left of humanity, tells them that the Beast is dead and provides them with proof in the form of its severed head.

He tells them that he is not of this world, that he's an alien from another planet, sent here to rule this world.

They scoff and gasp, many of them shouting their displeasure with the idea of being ruled by some alien and threatening to kill him.

His answer to their unruliness is to demonstrate his power, which results in hundreds of deaths and the immediate obedience of the remainder.

She's shocked by his actions, can't believe that this is the same man with whom she shared her first kiss, the very first and only man she's ever loved, and yet she does nothing, says nothing. She simply stands at his side, his family crest, now hers as well, emblazoned across her chest, stoically watching as he embraces his destiny and knowing that she's responsible for it all, that she's the one who set him on the path that led them all to this place.

Crying, as a show of grief, is something she's abandoned, because you have to have a heart in order to grieve, and hers turned to dust long ago. And yet, in this moment, a single tear, perhaps the last tear she will ever shed, rolls down her cheek in remembrance of the man she once knew.

From deep in the recesses of her mind, that tiny voice, _her_ voice, whispers...

_I'm to blame._

 

_fin_


End file.
